My Father's Secret
by sorceress2
Summary: Told from the point of Eriol's daughter. Entertaining. So R+R! Thanks.
1. Purely Ordained By Fate

Nothing. There was complete silence, so silent that I could hear the pounding of the blood in my own ears. Well I was going to escape that witch that my father was married to if my life depended on it. Huh. Well we'll just see if she lasts longer than the others. Fat chance. I muttered a foul curse, then clapped a hand over my mouth when I remembered that young ladies simply did not say such vile expletives. Oh well.  
  
I crept down our grand sweeping marble stairs carpeted with crimson fleur- de-france plush done in gold thread, and tried to move languidly so as not to disturb the great Swarovski crystal chandelier and make it tinkle. This house sometimes creeped me out, because of its massive size and gloominess, but it was the house which was my real mother's favorite, for its beautiful gardens.  
  
"Mili darling!" I winced. And note, that is not my name. My name is Emilia Serafina Hiiragizawa. My father, Eriol Hiirigizawa. My supposed step- mother, Solange Prudhomme Hiiragizawa. Yep, that's right. She's French and acts like it. Too bad she tries so hard to be my "friend". She simply wants another way to control my father even more. I really despise her.  
  
I turned with a stiff smile.  
  
"Emilia, if you please, Solange."  
  
"Oh don't be silly dear, its Mere!" Like I was going to call her mother, even if it wasn't in my birth language. I tell you, that woman is far too blond for my tastes. She is beautiful, but in a sort of way that does not invoke too much respect.  
  
"Anyway," she chattered on, "I really wanted to go shopping with you, and I thought that a téte-a-téte would do both of us a lot of good. Your thoughts?" Oh God help me. It was bad enough that my father insisted that we spend the summer in Calais, far enough from Paris to make me cry, but he also made me have to put up with this woman. She was so obnoxious. I was hard pressed to not roll my eyes at her.  
  
"Ma chere," I said as politely as possible, "it would please me very much to do so, but I am afraid that I have a rendez-vous with my friend, Jacqueline. She would be disappointed if I did not meet her." I lie enough to guarantee myself a one-way ticket to hell. Purgatory at the least.  
  
"But Solange, I will have plently of time tomorrow, so we might meet at, say, ten in the morning at the Café du Pont?" I blabbered inanely in French. I suppose that stupid conscience had gotten to me. Idiotic thing. At least it was an easy language to foul up one's day in. Solange flashed her megawatt smile. I wanted to cringe.  
  
"Chere, of course! I will await our time eagerly!" Ech. Eek. What had I gotten myself into? I managed to withdraw from the foyer(but in this castle of a house, it should be called the antechamber) and make a quick exit. Well, Jacqueline had better be home.  
  
I whipped out my chrome colored phone-compliments of Daddy, of course- and call Chirstophe. His housekeeper answered, and I managed to tell him to come and get me and Jacqueline quick. He assented.  
  
I had plenty of time to think before Christophe's sleek black convertible, just from a German BMW factory pulled up. He had it customized in all sorts of ways. I shook my head in rueful amusement. He would never learn to stop having everything his way. It was just as well.  
  
When he and Jacqueline picked me up, I told Christophe to whisk me to the nearest mall. At least Calais had malls. The last time Daddy took me to the U.S., I had a heyday at the Mall of America. I was jolted back to attention when Christophe made a sharp turn with a squealing of the large wheels, and gave him a sharp rap on his auburn head. He shrugged nonchalantly, though his dark eyes twinkled with amusement. He enjoyed making Jacqueline shriek, and she did not disappoint him. Jacqueline's hair, pure gold, was whipping around a face that made men stare, and sultry green eyes like a cat's were glowering at Christophe. He looked decidedly smug.  
  
I strode into the mall like it belonged to me, ruminating darkly about the best way to dispose of chere Solange tomorrow morning.  
  
"Chere, what is the matter? Is something wrong?" I nodded miserably. He gave me two quick kisses, one on each cheek. Christophe was so nice, he always let me have my way.  
  
"Everything is wrong, Christophe. My stupid step-mother is really getting obnoxious, and she won't leave me alone." I pouted. Oh, he was so kind it was like being spoiled by Daddy all over again. Christophe always spoiled me.  
  
"Then we must find a way to dispose of her, ma cherie. I would not want you to be unhappy." Oh, this was great. He led me to the Café la Glace, a very popular ice cream parlor with the young people in this area. It was frequented by anyone who was anyone. And I, I noted with pride, was certainly the someone of someones. Christophe, Jacqueline, and I were of the most popular group of young people around here, and in the circles of Paris, too. Many importants had summer homes here in Calais.  
  
"But let us not think of this now, rather I have a new distraction for you." His eyes twinkled mischievously as he led me to a booth.  
  
"There are several new faces here, and I thought that you might like to meet them."  
  
"Are they males?" I asked hopefully.  
  
"Of course, my dear!" he exclaimed. "That's exactly why I thought you would like them." I grinned. He knew me too well. Jacqueline, on the other hand, looked a bit panicky.  
  
"Sacré bleu!" she wailed. "Christophe, you demon! I have not had enough time to prepare myself. Shame on you!" he shrugged innocently.  
  
"But you look exactly beautiful and charming as you are, dear." He smiled angelically. I swear, that smile would get him his way-any way- with every girl. But he was chivalrous, and didn't.  
  
"Might as well jump on in with Christophe's hasty actions." Jacqueline muttered. She was so narcissistic sometimes, and worried a lot about her looks, but was fun once she forgot about them. Oh, and yes, she twirled men around her little finger. I shook my head. I would have to ask her one day how she gets so much out of them yet never give anything. Nothing at all.  
  
These were new faces. I had never seen any of them before. Christophe introduced me, since he knew them all from a soireé his father had held. Being the governor's son really had its up times.  
  
"Emilia chere, Jacqueline chere, this is Christian Antonio Visconti. He is the ambassador of Italy's son." I smiled graciously and aimed at him, with deadly accuracy , a sultry look. Hey, I didn't spend all these summers with Jacqueline for nothing. And besides, collecting admirers was very entertaining, if I did say so myself. And this Christian looked extremely nice.  
  
"This, is Hans Sebastian Dietrich." I threw him a brilliant smile, for the Germans tend to be more polite and do not make much of someone too forward. I gave myself a mental pat on the back. I was good. Not as good as Jacqueline, but still very satisfactory.  
  
"And this, Jacqueline, Emilia, is James Eriol Daidouji." My head whipped around from where it had been straying. It was not possible. I think my mouth dropped open.  
  
"Madam." James said. "We meet at very last. How have you been since the last time we met, sixteen years before?" My birth, I acknowledged numbly. The last time we had met, was when we were born.  
  
His mouth quirked in a half-smile, an ironic smile that commented on the sarcastic attitude of life.  
  
"Indeed." I replied graciously. "How have you been for these last sixteen years?" 


	2. The Lady of the Chamber with Seven Doors

"So, how is Mother?" I asked tremulously. It was approximately seven in the evening now, du soir, as the French put it. Meeting my brother, meeting James was still a bit of surprise every time I dwelt upon it. We were sitting in the finest restaurant in Calais, the Palais sur le Lac.  
  
He smiled at my question. Oh, he was so handsome that I was proud that he was my brother. He was the very image of Daddy. I was going to enjoy going places with him, and watching girls drool. James sat back in his chair effortlessly, with flawless grace, and brushed imaginarly dust of his superlative clothing. He was just like Daddy. He struck such a carelessly suave and handsome pose that I could even women staring in facination. I was aglow with pride.  
  
"Have you heard anything of her?" I shook my head, eager to hear something, anything of my mother who had been absent from my life for sixteen years. James looked eager to speak of her as well.  
  
His eyes, almost exactly the color of mine, were a violet-blue, though they had more of a tint of midnight blue to them. His hair was like mine too, black, though it was no wonder since we were twins. I wonder if Daddy even knew what he looked like.  
  
"She is doing as well as she could be. She doesn't even look like she has reached thirty years, though she is thirty-six now. She is still friends with all the people in the fashion business, and of course you have heard of her." I was out of sorts. It was the famous Daidouji Tomoyo that was my mother? I admired her very much for her storm on the fashion business. Infinitely better than Solange, that was sure.  
  
"Mother still sings, and her voice is like silver and angels. She still talks of you sometimes, of how you looked when you were born." My eyes were getting misty, but I smiled beautifically.  
  
"You must tell her that I always think of her, and that I wish to meet her one day." There the smile on James' face faded somewhat. At my questioning glance, he answered,  
  
"Mother and Father have a rift between them, Emilia. There always had been, every since we were born. Apparently something happened between them at about that time that caused them to split." He looked serious for a moment.  
  
"Apparently, it came to legal battles and hired guards." I stared incredulously.  
  
"Daddy would never do anything like that!" James shrugged.  
  
"I don't know anything, except bits and pieces of things. What do you know?" I shook my head, and thought hard.  
  
"Daddy said that he and Mother did not part amiably, and that he was nearly out of his mind for hurting her." James sat there, musing.  
  
"Then it must have been something that he did, though Mother said that she shouldn't have reacted so harshly." I looked sad for a moment, but then I brightened.  
  
"There is one thing that I am sure of, though. I think that he still loves her more than any other woman in the world." James cocked his head.  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"Well for one, he always looks sort of out of it on her birthday and on mine, as if he was remembering and regretting something. And always, he forbids mention of her among the servants, but they talk anyway behind his back. My nurse in England was a very kindly old lady, though she was prone to gossip that was how I found out all the more unsavory tidbits of my father." James leaned forward. I continued.  
  
"My father was apparently very popular with the women, but there was an older woman with whom he was particularly enamored in. I never found out who she was. When he couldn't have her because of some other man she was engaged to, he went on a rampage among the women with his friends. They were all poweful, and rich. So they went through the women almost as fast as they went through money. But they were rich and powerful enough to go through both at the rate that they wanted."  
  
I had the sudden image of Daddy, younger, flirting as easelessly with women as he did at the parties that he gave. Last year, when he finally said I was old enough to act his hostess (before that witch, Solange), I had a shock seeing my kind father being the casanova of the entire party.  
  
"Mother was a childhood friend of Daddy's, but she disapproved of his behavior. Then he became so desperately infatuated with her that he seduced her, after a long while. After that, he abstained from his wild behaviors. They were going to get married, but then something broke them apart."  
  
My mind was swimming with ideas about our parents. Why did they break apart? When and where did they meet? James looked too, deep in thought.  
  
"Yes," he said, "I heard from Mother about his wild behavior. She said that she met up with him for the first time in a long while in Italy, in a party in a mansion on the canals. Venice, I thought it was. She said despite his infidelity towards all women, they still draped themselves over him." I laughed.  
  
"That definitely sounds like Daddy." James chuckled.  
  
"Mother also said that he did a lot to make her happy. I think that they were happy together." I was sad. Then why weren't they together now?  
  
"Oh, and yes, there is another definite reason that I know, absolutely, that Daddy still loves Mother." James looked at me eagerly.  
  
"Well, it all started about three years ago, when I was thirteen." Then I was lost in memory.  
  
It was a very warm, sunny day in the southern moors of South England, and it was such a lazy and golden day that I wanted to do absolutely nothing except my favorite pastime, exploring our house. It was an old stately manor house, though it was in its own right a medium sized palace. There were many windows, and all of them let in the deliriously sleepy sunshine in. I had thought that it was the perfect day to explore the house.  
  
Now you might wonder why I wanted to explore my own house, but let me tell you that the manor had more than two hundred rooms, of which only half of them can be kept clean with an army of servants. The great, stately marble halls and fine polished wood were endless.  
  
I had been walking around aimlessly, carrying a basket of keys as a girl might in a Renoir picture, serene and idyllic in a white silk gossamer dress that was supposed to be for a tea party later that on. I was assiduous in keeping the yards of fine white gauze, aged Valenciennes lace, and pale purple sashes spotless. The tea party's theme was Napoleonic dress, and the high bodiced gown was perfect. All in all, I looked as if I had stepped right out of a painting of an early 18th century afternoon.  
  
I looked at the little map of the house. I was on the fourth floor. There still was another floor to go, the one least frequented by anyone. Everyone thought that this house was haunted, even though it was wired with electricity and had enormous windows. So I turned, and I found myself on the fifth floor. It was a mysterious floor, with only the halls cleaned once a month. All the rest of the rooms were locked and shut firmly. Well that was what the basket of keys was for.  
  
I didn't think that there was anything interesting on the fifth floor. On the fourth floor, there had been a nine foot concert grand piano in fine mahogany, carved and still sounding beautiful. There had been a large room filled with what seemed hundreds of myriad knick-knacks, old ivory and gold and enamel gleaming despite the dust and age.  
  
I looked though the little book of maps. There was a Blue Cobalt Suite, a Billiard Room, a Statuary Chamber, a Star Observatory with no ceiling, only glass, and ah, what was this? It was called the Gallery of Seven Doors. I went to see it to satisfy my curiosity. I remembered a cook mentioning something about it once. I thought hard. Oh yes, there was some myth about a lady who lived there.  
  
I sniffed. What rubbish was that? But I went to see it anyway. Did the room have seven doors, or was it just a name? Here it was.  
  
Staring up at the great, two story doors, I could not help but feel a bit intimidated. There was a scatter of cherry blossoms from the branches that spread themselves across the two doors, so artfully done I half-expected them to float to my feet and drift into my hair.  
  
I rummaged for the key, and took out a large brass key that I needed both hands to open. The doors opened without a sound. I frowned. They should be squeaking, but were very well oiled. I looked up, and gasped. It was absolutely gorgeous. Frescoes of angels and nymphs and flowers and beautiful places decorated the arched ceiling, alternating with thin strips of gilt work on shimmering alabaster.  
  
The room was decorated for a king. No, here it was more feminine. For a queen, then. The walls were pale marble, with greenish blue waves that hardly made any impact on the pale appearance of the room. I turned on the lights, and saw priceless works of art, of Italian statues and golden figures and eight-armed candlebras. How much was this room worth? Probably more than what the President of the United States earned in a year. In five years. Ten, maybe. I opened the second door. It was just like that, except it was more beautiful.  
  
For four more doors, it was all the same. More and more priceless, and more beautiful. Here was the seventh door. I frowned again, preplexed. What was this room for, this room with seven doors? Why was this room, out of so many others, so well kept? Perhaps because of its beauty?  
  
No, I reasoned with myself. My father closed up the Crystal Dome, a beautiful room that was expansive, being intended for parties. Now he only opened it up for that purpose. I was dying of curiosity. So I opened the doors.  
  
At the end, there was no eighth door. There were no decorations, save the frescoes on the ceiling and the golden gilt, and the carvings on the walls. Unlike the other rooms, there was only one thing that was not attatched to the actual room. It was a huge picture.  
  
It was a full-length painting of an extremely beautiful woman, dressed in Napoleonic regalia, a cream-colored satin confection with a thousand swirls of tiny seed pearls. It was decorated with Valenciennes lace, like mine, and a pale violet sash encircled the high waist of the dress. Her hair was black, but shimmered in the light of the painting and was so artfully arranged with diamonds and pearls that the coiffure seemed happstance. Pearls hung from her ears elegantly, and a choker necklace of diamonds and pearls accentuated the longest, most graceful neck I had ever seen. Her large, enigmatic eyes were a deep violet, and a slim hand was raised slightly as if to beckon something.  
  
Her face was so beautiful that I could not even be envious, but I could only stare. The expression she wore was mysterious, ethereal, and so enigmatic that though she was only a painting, I still felt drawn.  
  
I must have spent at least ten minutes staring at her, mystified. Who was she? Who was she that my father kept her rooms spotless, polished, though she was dead?  
  
I looked at James now, freed from my reminiscing.  
  
"I now know James, that she is not dead, merely gone, and she was my mother. I thought from her dress that she lived a long time ago, but it was my mother who posed for that picture, for our father." James looked at me sharply. He seemed resolved now.  
  
"Then it is true." He said slowly.  
  
"What is true?"  
  
"Mother always said he kept a room where he allowed no one to enter, and he said that he would show her someday. She said she never did."  
  
The waiter brought by our desserts, cappucino soaked tiramisu and blackberry cake with a white chocolate dressing.  
  
"Merci, Monsieur."  
  
"S'il vous plaît." The waiter replied.  
  
"I want to get them back together again." I stated. I didn't care what he thought, only that I wanted to do it more than anything. He nodded slowly.  
  
"I do, too." There was a pause, as though we were both wondering how to do it.  
  
"I want to make to you a promise, Emilia. Promise that we will go through with this." He held up his smallest finger, that gesture children make as a symbol of an oath that transcended all other agreements, that held greater weight than any other promise ever made. We were too old for that. I thought for a moment. So much had been stolen from us, and we had never promised each other anything before. This would be the first.  
  
I smiled slowly, and extended my smallest finger. We shook on it, and James kissed both my cheeks in an oddly formal way. The bargain was sealed. 


	3. Beginnings

"Frauline Bergmannnnnnnn!!!!" I shrieked. A slender, pale blond young woman scurried up to my rooms hurriedly. She looked extremely harassed.  
  
  
  
"Ja, Frauline Hiiragizawa?" She asked.  
  
  
  
"Mein Kleid ist nicht hier. Denken Sie, ist est unter das Bett, oder wo es ist?" My voice was raising louder by the moment as I was demanding her to find my dress.  
  
  
  
"Ist das Kleid rot, oder blau?" Frauline asked. Incompetent woman! It was neither of those colors. Could she never keep anything in order? Gods, my father simply hired her because she was pretty. He did not need to remind his various wives of how very short-lived they were going to be. I was going to scream. Again.  
  
  
  
"Sie sind sehr böse, und deine Gesicht ist sehr rot. Das ist nicht gut fur deine Gesicht. Wollen Sie Wasser trinken, oder essen etwas Brot? Ob Sie zum Party gehen, mussen deine Gesicht nicht rot sein." Frauline informed me coolly.  
  
  
  
"Oder werden Sie zum Party nicht gehen?" The stupid woman asked me. That did it. She was mocking me.  
  
  
  
I stamped my foot in frustration. Did she really need to state the obvious? I knew my face was red from fury, I did not want to drink water or eat anything, and I freaking KNEW that I shouldn't go to parties with a glowing red face!  
  
  
  
"Sprechen Sie nicht, Frauline Bergman. Sie konnen nichts verstehen. Finden Sie meine grunes Kleid, und meine weisse Schuhe. Gehen Sie jetzt." I told her airily.  
  
  
  
She was still my servant. God riddance if she could find either the green dress, or the white shoes. Hah. The door knocked timidly. I stomped over, and threw it open with the intention to make the imbecile suffer.  
  
  
  
What I saw stopped me short. James was decked out in a formal tuxedo, with immaculately black linen and the nice cuff links that I bought him. His white shirt under the black was a stark contrast, and his silk cravat, dark blue and royal purple, were perfect. It was a time period masquerade. Hah. Was Daddy ever going to get a surprise when Mother and James showed up. He never did tell me who I could and couldn't invite. Au Revoir, Solange! I could just feel the gleeful smile creep up.  
  
  
  
"Anything amusing that I should know about, darling?" Asked James. I shook my head.  
  
  
  
"Only that my dear stepmother, Solange is going to be last week's news very soon." Ah, but life was too good. He led me laughingly into my room. His eyes danced with merriment.  
  
  
  
"You scheming little thing, Emilia. But hurry up and get dressed. The party is going to start soon." I grumbled about Frauline Bergman for a moment more, then decided for the Victorian dress. It was a masquerade ball, as Daddy had a fondness for those, and he only chose the ones where he didn't have to dress like an idiot in breeches or some other such thing. The women always got the better clothes, in my opinion. My dress was glorious, it was a brilliant scarlet-purple, with great, lavish festoons of ribbons and silver eyelet lace. I wore a single diamond pendant, the one I received on my sixteenth birthday, along with drop diamond earrings and a great mask adorned with scarlet and peacock feathers. I touched my eyes with silver glitter. A shimmering gloss on my lips, and my hair had been perfectly curled, too.  
  
  
  
I stared at my reflection. Mother was going to be there, and I was going to see her in person for the first time in sixteen years. What would she look like? Would she like me? Or would she merely see me as an extension of Daddy and hate me? Did she still hate Daddy? Suddenly, apprehension filled me and I was now reluctant to meet her, whereas I previously had been giddy with excitement at the very thought.  
  
  
  
"You look very beautiful, and I will be proud to see boys drool over you, Emilia. Don't worry." James gave me a kiss on the cheek.  
  
  
  
"Are you ready?" he asked. I nodded tremulously. It was time to go down, and help Daddy receive the guests. Taking a deep breath as James offered an arm, I took it and descended the great marble staircase. The plan had been set that they would meet as the reception would start, and they would also be seated next to each other at the dinner party. I had made sure that I looked perfect, and that Daddy looked perfect, and that James had looked perfect, too. Everything was exactly how it should be. Bring it on, Solange. 


End file.
